


Blooding

by notparticularly



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Animal Death, Blood, Friendship, Gen, Hunting, Traditions, contains graphic ish descriptions of hunting-related gore, this was inspired by a friend of mine finally getting his first pheasant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notparticularly/pseuds/notparticularly
Summary: Snapshots of the Blooding tradition practiced by certain members of the Ñoldor
Relationships: Aredhel & Celegorm | Turcafinwë
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	Blooding

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary (Quenya):-  
> Hwindë - Birch tree  
> Minë - one  
> Atta - two  
> Neldë - three  
> Canta - four  
> Írissë - Aredhel  
> Turcafinwë - Celegorm  
> Moryo - Caranthir  
>   
> Please be aware that this chapter contains descritions of animal death and hunting-typical gore. In addition the tradition of blooding may not be suitable for the faint of heart.

Írissë breathes slowly and steadily, keeping perfectly still. Here, far from the trees, the air is thick with twilit gloom, and what light reaches them casts the heather-clad peaks in rich copper. The world is burnished in red and gold, for it is Yavanna’s season, and flaxen leaves fall gently around Írissë’s bare feet. 

She is sequestered in a sparse copse of hwindë, their silver bark dappled with rich lichens. Tonight, as with every hunt, she has foregone her more elaborate raiment, opting instead for a roughspun cloak of grey and ochre. Effective camouflage for her current position, but if she is forced to leave the cover of the trees she will be visible to the whole glen. All, then, relies on Turcafinwë sticking to the plan.

Atop the nearest rounded peak, a great stag paws the ground. His antlers, silhouetted against the purple sky, are ten-pointers at the least. 

Írissë grins. Their Lord will be pleased.

On cue, Turko’s horn rings out from the other slope of the hill, followed by the baying of his hounds. The stag startles and springs forward, bounding down the slope towards Írissë.

Her bow taut, Írissë tracks the stag’s progress as it zigzags down the slope, Turko’s hound’s snapping at its heels. She can see her milk-pale cousin further up the slope, running swift and low to the ground, his snow-white hair secured against his head in tight braids of her own design. She knows - though cannot hear - that he will be calling to his dogs in that tongue they share.

She releases one steadying breath, then shoots.

And one of the hounds leaps towards the stag’s flank, sending it off-balance. The stag roars - an echoing bellow that glances off the hills behind her and seems to fill the valley - and swings its great antlered head towards the dog. Írissë’s breath catches, but the dog dances out of the way of the slashing prongs and it catches one foot on a bank of loose scree which gives way under its momentum, and the stag slips a great distance, legs flailing. 

The first shot misses.

Calmly, Írissë nocks another arrow, the deer-bone tip sharp and pale against her thumb. There are no missteps on the hunt, she does not fret or worry as like an unblooded child. Their Lord Oromë will not lead them astray. All hunts are made to His design, and all players in the hunt do naught but act out His will. Here, in the wilds, they are neither prince nor princess, they are not bound by the courts of their fathers or the expectations of their kin. They shed their selves like skin and become, for a while, something more. Shadow and light, two sides of the same coin.

The stag’s momentum builds as it regains its footing, and Írissë brings it into sharp focus as she steadies her aim and draws the bowstring taut. 

_ Minë _ . The stag leaps over a pebbled stream, leaving the last of the hounds on the far bank.

_ Atta _ . The string slips her fingers with a twang.

_ Neldë. _ The arrow strikes true, piercing the great stag through its muscled neck.

_ Canta. _ It falls, twitching.

Momentum carries the stag further down the last stretch of slope before Írissë’s position, and she steps out to meet it. It stops at her feet, and with one last jerk of its great antlered head the stag dies, steam rising from its stilled flanks. She kneels and places her deep brown hand on the white flash of fur that graces the stag’s forehead, and remains thus until she hears Turko marshalling his hounds and crossing the stream.

Her cousin squints in the growing gloom and, prepared for his short-sightedness, Írissë sheds her camouflaged cloak to reveal underneath a gleaming white tunic, threaded with silver which catches even the dim light of distant Telperion. Turko does not wear his delicate eyeglasses out here in the wilds, for though they are made by his father they are a mark of distinct civilisation, so much at odds with the philosophy of their hunt.

Seeing her at last, Turko grins and whistles, sauntering towards their kill. The dogs, obedient, keep their distance. They know well the course of the hunt by now and, once their masters have done their business, they know they will have their fill.

As is their custom, no word passes between the two as they come together. Turcafinwë tosses his own painted cloak aside to reveal a tunic of sable, stark against his skin. Kneeling together, they take their knives from their pouches and notch the hilts. Then, taking a crimson embroidered silk leaf from her satchel, Írissë presses it between the stag’s teeth. This one is particularly beautiful, a gift from Turko’s brother Moryo, reinforced with copper wire.

Meanwhile, Turko is closing the stag’s eyes with a soft touch. He meets Írissë’s gaze over the carcass and they move as one, their razor-sharp knives slicing through skin like butter along its belly.

Steam and heat billow into the air from the cut. Turko reaches into the hot entrails and dips his fingers into pooling blood and stands. Írissë, kneeling before him, closes her eyes. She feels his other hand lift her chin slightly, then the wet heat of the blood on his fingertips as he traces her hunters’ sigil across her face. 

His thumb sweeps in a half-circle over her forehead, from the centre of one dark eyebrow to the centre of the other. In the absence of his touch, the blood cools quickly in the air. With his index finger now, he draws a vertical line from the centre of her brows down the bridge of her long nose, ending at the tip.

It is Turko’s turn now. She presses her fingers into the pooling blood and stands behind his now-kneeling form. He tilts his head back until it rests on her thighs and closes his eyes. Taking three fingers, she starts at his pale eyebrows and drags back towards herself, drawing three long lines from forehead to the crown of his skull.

They are blooded, they are one with the hunt. The stag’s spirit will imbue them with strength, with fleetness of foot, with pride outwith folly.

Now, they get to work. Their deft hands making light work of preparing the stag for butchery and transport. As they work, their hoarse voices rise in song for the first time.

“Grant us always wisdom and respect in the pursuit,” sings Írissë.

“Keep us ever humble in the harvest,” Turko responds. 

“We thank you, Oromë, for sharing with us the glory of your hunt,” they intone together, in the peculiar, invented harmonies of their tradition.

Ritual over, they grin at each other and Turko flicks a splatter of red blood onto Írissë's white tunic. In retaliation she flings a handfulf of dirt at his head. Their laughter rings out like bells in the quiet of the glen.

On the near peak, a great horned figure moves off, sated. His hunt continues, but not here.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in a really long time and I'm excited to continue it! Planning on 3 more chapters spanning the first age then a 5th at the end of the third age, featuring a lot of different characters. I'll add the characters as I post the chapters they're included in.
> 
> I haven't used a beta reader so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> A note on traditions: blooding is generally only done one someone's first hunt, to 'initiate' them into the hunters' group. The silk leaf relates to the American-German tradition of 'last bite', where a leaf or twig is placed between the teeth of the stag out of respect. The song they sing is taken from this Hunter's Prayer I found on pinterest: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/547187423450662232/
> 
> A note on character descriptions: My Írissë is black. My Turko has Albinism and is short-sighted. This depiction of Turko is inspired by ingenious_spark from their fic Of Harsh and Caustic Nature: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8570005/chapters/19646932


End file.
